


Break Off a Piece of Your Heart

by slothy_girl



Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, Memories and dreams, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Re:Mind Compliant, Reincarnation, Sora spilling his feelings literally everywhere, Sort of..., kingdom hearts - Freeform, some lime as they used to call it eons ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22856137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: In a quiet moment, just the two of them, Sora asks, “If I ever disappeared one day, in one way or another, what would happen?”They stand motionless for a beat, two beats, and just as Sora is about to leave, Riku looks up.“I would search the world for you,” Riku says, eyes blazing and determined. "No matter what, I would find you and I would bring you home."
Relationships: Riku/Sora (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Sway with Me (Hold Me Close) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643101
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	Break Off a Piece of Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Did not expect to be back so soon or really at all actually lol But I guess if there's something KH is good for, it's inspiration!
> 
> I read it over and nearly cried from the mix of exhaustion and emotions. Does that count as betaing?
> 
> Title is once again from "Sway With Me" by Saweetie and GALXARA!

-

“Everyone always told me to just follow my heart, but follow my heart, hearts are all connected. Trace the connection.” -Sora, _Kingdom Hearts III, Re:Mind_

-

**|Break Off a Piece of Your Heart|**

It’s been… well, Sora’s not actually sure how long it’s been.

See, he never was very good at keeping track of time. It’s something he used to get into a lot of trouble over back before Destiny Islands fell to the darkness, when he was just a regular kid, prone to napping on the beach and being late to everything despite Riku and Kairi’s best efforts. Feels like a lifetime ago.

But the way it passes now, in fits and stops and starts, stuttering and blurred and blank one second, crystal clear and all too real the next, in this…world, this place that he knows he’s never been to, at least, he thinks so, but for which is strangely familiar—like déjà vu or catching a glimpse of a friend from the corner of your eye before you really recognize them—and as comforting as home.

He stopped trying to keep track a long time ago.

He just knows it’s been… a long time.

What’s worse, maybe, is that he’s not exactly… himself, in this place.

“Hey,” a brush of fingers, blunt and lovely against his cheek, slipping warm and gentle to knead at the tense line of Sora’s neck. Sora jerks slightly—he never even heard the other man come _in_ — before pushing back up into the touch, hungry and affectionate and in need of comfort, blinking tired eyes up from the rolls of paper he’s been staring at for the last five minutes he’s been… aware.

(Policies, if he had to guess, not that he knows much about those—though it’s the weirdest thing, because for all he knows, and he’s pretty sure he does, they’re all written in a language he shouldn’t know, but he does, he _understands_ it as if it were his own—anyways.

Apparently, whoever he is here, whoever _he_ is, _whatever he is_ , in this strange, perpetually bright world, is important. That, at least, he’s figured out.

The fact that he’s always wearing elaborate robes and very obviously living in a castle where everyone he meets—in what little time he’s awake to meet anyone, anyways—addresses him as “Your Highness” and “Sire” maybe tipped him off.

Well, everyone except—)

“You should take a break, love.”

Sora flushes—he’s still not used to the names, so sincere and adoring even when the man is teasing or mocking him mercilessly, even though he’s heard the man call him all sorts of things by now, sappy things, embarrassing things (things that make him giddy and pleased and a little bit sad for what he does and does not have, not really, the chance he’s worried he might have missed out on—Gods, he hopes it’s not too late)—and sighs, turning in his stupidly plush chair to collapse face first into the awaiting arms held out to him.

He’d probably be a lot more scared if he didn’t have this version of Riku—for all that he’s not _Sora’s_ Riku (they don’t even share the same _name—_ a name that no matter what Sora does, he can’t seem to _catch_ , just like he can’t seem to catch the name of the man whose body he’s been hitching a ride in—let alone the same face, not really, not _exactly_ ), except for all the bizarre ways that _he is_ —to keep him company through whatever the hell this is.

(And he does, keep him company that is.

Whenever Sora wakes up, wherever he is, whatever situations he finds himself in, Riku is there, never too far out of reach, rarely further than an arm’s reach away, always standing just behind him at his shoulder or pressed up against his side or, on more than one memorable occasion, curled up against him in a bed—their bed, apparently. He’s a shadow Sora would never want to shake, even if he’s not _his_.

Any Riku is still Riku, even though he’s so free in his touches, in his affection, in ways that Sora’s Riku has never been. Or the fact that he’s some kind of royalty too.

Or in the way his eyes blaze, dark and haunting and tragically _beautiful,_ like a Dark Fira imploding into sparks or the colorful spread of the Lanes Between, all blues and purples and pinpricks of gold flashing through. But who is he to judge? This version of him has eyes that burn bright like the orange sun that never sets in this world, little freckles glaring like worlds right out of his face—and wasn’t that just a heart attack waiting to happen, the first time he caught a look at himself in a mirror.

And that’s not even getting him started on the tattoos that track up everywhere on this body.

Gods. What a fucking mess.)

(He wonders, sometimes, if Riku—the one warm and breathing and smelling like some weird cross between flowers and pine against Sora’s face, the one rubbing fingers firmly, perfectly, against his temple where the headache he just can’t seem to shake takes its fun stabbing Sora behind the eyes—if he knows he’s not _his_ Sora. If he cares.

Sora’s not sure what he wants the answer to be.

All he knows is, he can’t lose this.

It’s the only thing keeping him from going batshit crazy, makes this all a little more bearable, for whatever that’s worth.)

(It’s worth a lot.)

“Let’s get you to bed.” Riku tugs lightly on one of his bangs, cups his cheeks and squeezes ever so gently.

“Agh fine,” Sora groans obnoxiously and drawn out, nuzzling tiredly into those warm palms, slotting in under Riku’s arm easy as anything, easy as breathing, their sides fitting tight together as they make the trek back to their room. They nod and smile at the people they pass in the hallway, but keep a pace that leaves them unbothered. The second they reach their room, Sora bundles up in the sanctity of their bed, Riku a strong presence at his back, because he can, because he’s exhausted even though he hasn’t even _done_ anything, because he’s getting pretty sick of all this, because he misses his friends, and his own body, and _his_ Riku. Like maybe he could just sleep through all of this bullshit the way he slept through his memories being strung back together, like he slept through the end of his Mark of Mastery exam…

And okay, sure, there’s probably more that he could be doing than this, than just getting dragged along, than sleeping this particular stint off to skip to the next one. Master Yen Sid would have plenty to say about that, Sora’s sure.

But see, the thing is, he doesn’t really know where to even _start_ on how to break free of... whatever, this is. Whether he’s even supposed to.

Maybe this is the price for using the Power of Waking the way he did. The sacrifice Xehanort spoke of.

Maybe this is all happening for a reason.

He remembers facing Yozora—another Riku who was not his Riku (and Sora, apparently, one who was not exactly _his_ Sora either, Gods, Sora’s head is really starting to hurt now)—he remembers just barely winning by the skin of his teeth and how Yozora smiled at him almost _tenderly_ in a way that reminded him of how Riku looked at _him_ as he burst into a giant pillar of light, remembers finding himself back in the Final World, the sun rising soft and gleaming over the empty horizon. And after that?

Nothing.

Nothing, and then he woke up here...

Surely, there’s something he’s missing here? That’s certainly not outside the realm of possibility. He’s only awake and cognizant for so long, which is not really that long at all. It doesn’t exactly leave a whole lot of time—agh, time again—to do much of anything. He’s just along for the ride.

He has no idea why any of this is happening.

He’s so tired.

And that seems to be a constant, this exhaustion, that and the pain lancing through Sora’s skull. A simple Cure would have helped in the past, if this were Sora’s real body and not the doppelgänger’s he occasionally takes on a joyride, but he doesn’t dare try anything. There’s a power in his chest, swollen and fierce and violent and _hungry_. All-consuming. Constant. It’s like nothing Sora’s ever felt before, except, maybe, during the fractured times he can vaguely remember spent in Rage Form.

It’s one of the first things he’d noticed, the first time he woke up here, gasping and disoriented in a courtyard that had felt completely foreign and exactly like home at the same time.

The last time he used power he didn’t really understand, he ended up here. Not exactly a ringing endorsement in being reckless, there—though of course, he hardly regrets it. He’d do it again and again if he had to. But this, _whatever this is_ , feels so much more powerful, so much older, ancient and expansive, an ocean greater than any Sora has ever seen on any world he’s ever visited… Knowing his luck, the first time he tried to do anything with it, he’d probably go and blow himself up or something. Or make everything worse, somehow. Just seems how it’d go, at this rate.

No, yeah, definitely not messing with it if he can help it. Headaches and exhaustion seem to be the lesser price to pay when the flip side could easily be, like, permanent _death_ or world destruction or something.

Gods.

(He wonders if this is what the Power of Waking is _supposed_ to feel like—like an overflowing canyon, like he can hardly contain it, can barely catch it in his hands—because it does feel like it, a little bit, from what he remembers, though that was much easier to control once he had it, or if his crashing through the timelines changed it somehow. Warped it.

He wonders if it’s the Power of Awaking at all, or if it’s another beast entirely, vast and endless and _bright_.)

(There’s an answering blaze he can sense in some buzzing, almost disembodied way in this Riku. It’s constantly shifting, restless and waiting just under his skin, _their_ skin. He’s felt it flare and dim and change, the glow of his eyes fluctuating with it, feels his own energy move and shift with it like it’s trying to compensate, like it’s adjusting—like they’re _both_ constantly adjusting and filling in the gaps that the other leaves… He’s never seen him use it, but he already knows the taste of it, thick and sweet in the back of his throat. He’s tempted to ask him to show him. Very tempted.

He’s sure it looks amazing.

It’s Riku, after all.)

(But what does this all make them? Whatever they are, they’re made of the same stuff. And whatever that is, Sora’s starting to think it’s not the same as everyone else here.

Are they even human?)

Sora wakes, his fingers tangled in the spiked strands of his half-finished braid. That’s another thing he’s had to get used to. Long hair is all the rage here, apparently, and not even he, a King, is exempt. Riku, of course, looks fucking amazing, hair like a silk curtain running down past his waist. Sora just thinks he looks dumb, all cowlicks and choppy lengths. No wonder his doppelgänger keeps it pulled back three ways to Sunday.

Either way, he’s stuck with this mess. He supposes he could always just undo it all, but then he’d have to deal with all that hair and no. Just no. He huffs and tries to finish it. It’s slow going and though these hands might know what to do, Sora himself doesn’t really have a clue. It’s a battle of muscle memory versus overthinking, and overthinking is clearly winning. His fingers feel like clumsy noodles. “Agh.”

Behind him—sprawled out on their bed, looking lazy and especially pretty—Riku snorts.

“Shut up,” Sora grumbles, unwinding a part of the plait to start again and ignoring the pain already gathering, slow and seeping, behind his eye. Sometimes, he can go almost thirty minutes without any pain. Other times, he comes to and it’s already there, searing. He’s just lucky, maybe, that he has so much practice pushing through his pain. Compartmentalization, or something, he thinks he heard Kairi call it once, a sad look on her face.

Eh, whatever.

“Forget how to braid again, have you?” Riku smirks, eyes like gleaming jewels in his face. “Hopeless.”

“Agh, leave me alone. You’re distracting me.”

Somehow, the darkness of his eyes softens, glowing dimly. A soft caress, kind and fleeting as a sea breeze can be, passes along the bare skin of Sora’s arm, tracing up the strange marks tattooed into his skin. He shivers, swallowing against the answering swell rising in his chest.

“Here, I’ll help you.”

Sora glares at him a moment, just to be difficult, before relenting. “Alright. It’s not like you can mess it up worse.”

Riku huffs another laugh but gets to work.

And it feels nice. Sora doesn’t normally have enough motivation to do more than shake out his own hair in the morning, and besides the occasional hair ruffle, no one except him touches it. Here, he just tries his best to get by without accidently yanking out anything. But these hands obviously know what they’re doing, every strand behaving perfectly under his touch. Even though he could do it quick and efficient, Sora can tell that he isn’t. Instead, he draws it out, pausing here and there to ease out the tangles or just run his fingers through it. His smile is soft in the reflection of the mirror when Sora chances a glance at him—so tall and lovely, so much older, just that little bit off. Something in Sora melts anyways, but that’s a feeling he’s at least used to, a feeling he had before this place. 

When Riku ties the end off with the red ribbon that’s been hanging off the mirror, Sora turns around and crowds into the open span of his arms to press a kiss—soft and precious, something to be guarded, something to protect—to his lips. “Thank you,” he whispers into the space between them, eyes closed. Already, he can tell he’s drifting back off. Everything is starting to get muffled.

“Always.”

He wakes.

“—how does it taste?” A kindly man asks, eyes twinkling out from a heavily wrinkled face.

Sora blinks, swallows the mouthful of liquid—something spicy and yet weirdly sweet, reminds him of the mulled cider Little Chef likes to cook with—that had been tingling on his tongue. “Good…?”

Beside him, Riku snorts into his own cup, clearly amused.

Immediately, Sora turns on him and tugs on a stray lock of silver hair, careful not to spill his own glass. “Hey now—”

He wakes and he’s standing on a balcony, somewhere up high, the expanse of the kingdom spreading out far and wide, bathed in the light of an ever present sun. It never rises. It never sets, perpetually shining above. There is no darkness that Sora can see. Nothing lingering in the shadows.

There are no other stars in the sky.

Sora’s starting to get an idea about why. He shivers a little bit.

“You okay?” Riku asks quietly from his side, mouth flat and concerned when Sora turns around to lean against the stone railing.

Sora reaches for him, draws him in closer, fingers clutching at the fabric of his robe. Easy, all of this is easy. He wonders how long this will last. “M’okay,” he says and smiles. He even means it, sort of. For the most part.

Riku leans closer, presses his mouth against his temple for a moment, then sighs. “No fever.”

“Agh, stop it,” Sora drawls, dragging the vowels out petulantly, but snuggles in closer anyways, because he might not recognize this place, his face, this Riku, but his heart does, he’s coming to realize, and it leaps and flutters, pounding _mine, mine, mine_ , my world, my face, my Riku, and who is he to ignore it?

He wakes, face half buried in Riku’s chest, the blackout curtains pulled shut to create an artificial night.

Sora passes a few blurry moments starring at the tangle of their fingers resting just over Riku’s heart, quietly contemplating the differences in their skins—how this Sora’s tan is so much deeper, so much darker, freckled more heavily than he’s used to in a world where the sun never sets, how this Riku’s skin is almost white as porcelain in spite of it, how the contrast is beautiful and completely lovely—lingering over the way their fingers fit together, notched like puzzle pieces, like they were made for each other. He wonders how him and Riku, _his_ Riku, will look if they ever get the chance to be like this. He hopes they do. Gods, does he.

He takes a deep breath and nuzzles closer, closes his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, and resigns himself to the pain he can already feel edging in behind his jaw, focuses instead on Riku’s heart beating strong beneath him, the way his own heart responds in counter point, the way the two seem to sing in a harmony Sora could never forget.

He wakes up, half-kneeling on the windowsill over a pliant Riku, his hands pressed to his face, fingers fitting perfectly into the natural curves and hollows. He’s just coherent enough to hear Riku, voice rough with sleep and so very fond, say, “I will always wait for you.”

“Sappy,” Sora laughs softly, pleased and unsurprised after hearing such words so often, happy despite the exhaustion clinging to his bones. But that feeling abruptly derails into something like doubt, a shiver running up his back as he takes in the way Riku’s hair has begun spilling out from the rolled bun he’s started keeping it in recently.

It’s a lot more work than the loose style he’d been originally keeping it in—Sora’s watched him braid it, build it up, and tie it into place a few times now—but he argues that it’s better this way. Out of the way. He’d cut it, Sora’s sure, eventually, can read it in the way his mouth twists up sometimes when the hair doesn’t sit like it’s supposed to. It seems to be going that way. It’s only a matter of time. Sora’s not sure why that matters though. There’s no danger or anything here, that he’s seen. No Heartless. No Nobodies. Crime, as far as his advisors—he has actual advisors, what the hell—are concerned, is nonexistent. Nothing bad ever happens here except for paper cuts and the occasional stubbed toe. He would have known if there was.

But he can also tell that there’s something Riku isn’t telling him, that something is a little bit off. This might not be _his_ Riku, but one of the things they seem to share is a bad habit of trying to use distance and distraction as a means of hiding something. Whether it’s because he’s jealous or because he thinks it will protect himself or protect Sora, he’s more transparent than ever. It’s a wonder Sora never noticed when they were younger, before the Islands fell to darkness.

Sora wonders if the man whose body he’s wearing knows that Riku’s started pulling away from him, from them.

He hopes he does.

He wakes, his voice cutting off mid word as he tries to catch his bearings. A woman stands in front of him, one he’s seen around a couple times, but whose name he’s never heard. They’ve passed in the castle hallways once or twice. She always smiles at him. Now, she’s looking a little more concerned.

“Oh, uh…” He glances around, clearing his throat. Riku—for the first time since this started, however long that’s been—isn’t around. Or if he is, Sora can’t see him, can’t feel him. There’s an emptiness in his chest that speaks to a barrier, to a link temporarily blocked. It’s sort of like the Dream Eater link, which has only been cold and dead in the back of his mind, in some fleshy part of his heart, since he ended up in the Final World for the last time.

No, Riku isn’t nearby at all. He rubs almost absently at the spot where it’s most hollow, just over his heart. Where the hell could he even be though? Is this related to… whatever, from before? Skipping forward like this, because Sora is pretty sure that’s what’s happening at this point, definitely leaves some gaps sometimes. It’s frustrating.

“Sire?”

“Yes? Sorry.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head, wincing when his fingers get caught up in his ponytail. Ugh.

“Are you… okay?”

“Of course.” Not really. “What were we talking about?”

Her expression turns exasperated and fond. “You’re always so distracted when he’s away.”

“Hey!” He sputters. Heat builds in his cheeks, his ears, burning brighter when she laughs in delight. “I’m not—why would you say something like that?”

“It’s okay, sire.” Her eyes dance, blue and sparkling. For a moment, in the brilliant light cast across the castle gardens, she reminds him almost painfully of Kairi. Gods, he misses her. Misses everyone. “It’s no secret. We all know better by now.”

“Oh, man.”

She visibly pulls herself together, a little more serious, reassuring, “He’ll be home soon.”

A tension he hadn’t even realized was there in his shoulders bleeds out, just the littlest bit. It’s different though, something says in him, sadly. Whatever has Riku away this time is different, even if Sora himself has never been around to witness it. He huffs, shaking his head. “I know. I just don’t like to be away from him,” he doesn’t mean to say. It just kind of tumbles out of his mouth, uncontrollable. There’s more to it, more words scrambling at the back of his throat. They taste bitter and lonely. They taste like fury and desperate confusion and—he grimaces and shuts the lid firmly on that. “Um—”

Her hand lands delicately on his wrist and squeezes. “He would never leave you for long, sire. Don’t worry.”

Sora laughs again and nods, though it’s strained. He doesn’t believe her, not necessarily, but he wishes he did.

“I’ll try not to.”

He wakes. Riku is not there. He smiles tiredly at the child sitting in his lap, happily babbling away about something Sora isn’t bothering to pay attention to.

He hopes the next time he wakes will be different.

It’s not.

He wakes. The hollowness in his chest is expanding. A sadness lurks in the back of his throat, thick and viscous. He rolls over in the bed and tries to ignore the chill.

He wakes, this time, mid kiss. Riku is desperate and grinding against him in their bed, the sun slanting gold across Riku’s bare shoulders from the open window.

“Oh,” he moans in surprise and wonders if he should do something, say something, stop this now—all the other times this has happened, that’s what he did, made his excuses and eased them into something less erotic and more just patiently intimate and affectionate. And unlike other times, they even still have their pants on—but he’s been lonely for all that he hasn’t really been alone, and it feels good, makes him light up from the inside out, makes him feel more alive than he’s felt in the shadows of Riku’s absence—Gods, so long—chasing away all the tension, all the horrible, darkened feelings.

“I missed you,” he gasps and falls into it, thrusting up against him, hands finding purchase in the steel corded muscles of his back, in the long, unbinded silk of his hair. He yanks, exhilarates at the groan Riku presses into his neck, at the way he can _feel_ the energy collecting around them, inside them, violent and burning. He pauses, just a second, not because he’s unsure, but because there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to keep a lid on the power pulsing through his chest. But then Riku bites down on a spot just under his nipple, sharp and demanding, and that worry gets thrown clear out the window along with what little restraint Sora has.

It’s a bit of a learning curve, a contradiction of muscle memory, instincts, and Sora’s own inexperience, but he figures it out eventually. He’s always been an enthusiastic learner where Riku is concerned.

He studies all the spots that have Riku gasping and moaning and sighing, the keys of his ribs, the dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck, the small of his back. Traces the dark marks spanning Riku’s body, twins to the ones inked into his own. Feels the way the knot in his throat bobs when he licks over it. He eases down his pants, spreads his legs wider to accommodate Riku between them. Decides that while he likes the feel of him there, he has no leverage, that he wants to try something, so he flips them and makes quick work of Riku’s pants too. Distracts him with sucking marks into his neck, his chest, down, down, down, nuzzling kisses and bites into the sharp cut of his hip bone. Takes in the way his hips stutter when Sora takes him firmly in hand and strokes, rough and tight, the way his voice gets louder and deeper when Sora finally takes that first taste, the second, the third.

Riku gives back as good as he gets, of course, because Riku will never not rise to Sora’s level in anything, a mixture of competitiveness and devotion strung out between the two of them that has Riku dragging him up by the arms to kiss him, tongues slipping wet and sweet together as they grasp at whatever flesh they can get their hands on, the tension between them building higher and higher until everything snaps in a shattering of gasps and moans and unbridled energy.

They’re already on round two, still panting and sweat soaked from the first go around, when Riku’s breath hitches in his ear. “My heart,” he says on a sigh, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep in his chest, like it hurts him to say, hips moving slow and purposeful, the space between them hot and slick as they slide together in the most perfect way that drives Sora absolutely fucking crazy.

“My blade,” Sora breathes back without thinking, pressing the words into the shadowed hollow of Riku’s jaw like a secret, dragging his mouth along the cut of it until their lips meet again and again and again.

It’s only after, Riku a dead weight in sleep against his arm, that Sora notices the strange lights hovering all around the room, all blues and purples and golds that tickle and flicker away when they’re close enough to touch.

Huh.

Maybe this power isn’t so bad after all.

He wakes and it’s to the Kingdom Key, resting light and joyful across his hands, humming almost as if in recognition. His first instinct is to look up at Riku, grinning full of wonder and excitement despite the incessant pounding in his temples. Riku smiles back, but its flatter, distracted. He has one too, not as familiar as the one in Sora’s hands, but still brilliant in gold and just as recognizable, the twin blade to his own.

“They were forged in your images, my friends,” a man in an Organization coat says, and the world drops out from beneath Sora’s feet, something cold and dreadful sloping heavy into his stomach.

Oh, Sora thinks, and another piece falls into place.

In a quiet moment, just the two of them, on the cusp of a storm just starting to emerge on the horizon of this world, the air heavy and damp, everything silent and muffled like it never has been before, Sora asks, “If I ever disappeared one day, in one way or another, what would happen?”

Riku—who has only gotten more distant as time has gone on, around less and less when Sora comes to, their powers no longer intermingling and balanced as before—startles. He pins Sora with a stare bordering on suspicious, accusatory, the line of his shoulders tense and fragile. Sora wonders if just a touch could break him. They haven’t touched at all in a long time. “Why? Are you planning on leaving anytime soon?”

Sora shakes his head, offers a bland smile. “I’m being serious.”

“Well, so am I.”

Sora sighs, too tired to deal with Riku when he’s like this. “Never mind,” he says and makes to leave the room, their room—which was once so full of love and life, but only ever feels empty and hollow now—but is stopped by a sudden bruising grip on his arm. They stand motionless for a beat, two beats, Sora glaring at Riku and Riku hiding behind the fringe of his bangs. And just as Sora is about to demand just what the hell Riku thinks he’s doing, Riku looks up.

“I would search the world for you,” he says, eyes blazing and determined. “I would move the earth, the ocean, the sky, if I had to. I would look for you across lifetimes, in light or darkness. I would do anything, become anything, give everything. And no matter what, I would find you,” his voice breaks, grip tightening, “and I would bring you home.”

He wakes and there is a muffled screaming in his ears.

A battle is raging on around them, a hastily woven barrier the only thing keeping the encroaching darkness Sora can dimly see from tearing them apart. There’s the scent of burning flesh, acrid and heavy in his nose, and the taste of iron so red and thick in his mouth, Sora feels like he’s choking on it. A chill has seeped into his chest, tendrils spreading slow like ice through his limbs. He wonders if this is how it feels to die.

“No, no, no,” Riku is pleading, voice broken and stuttering. His hair’s been chopped short and uneven, like he’d done it mid-fight. Tears drip down along the line of his nose to slip across Sora’s cooling cheek. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Please, no.”

“I love you,” Sora says instead of the thousand other things he wants to say, things he could say, because he hasn’t said it yet, because Riku, any Riku, deserves to know, to hear, because any Riku is still Riku and he’s his, always. He tightens his grip on the hands grasping desperately at his and closes his eyes.

There’s an extreme wave of heat, a noise, crackling and wild, howling, angry, a sound like tearing paper, a feeling like a wave crashing down over his head, dense and all consuming—

Sora wakes to hands yanking him out of the surf.

He chokes, flailing, stumbling as those hands— _those hands, he knows those hands—_ guide him back to shore. He collapses against the stone, gasping up at a sky that he _knows_ , in a place _he’s_ been to before, the world where he fought Xehanort for the last time. Scala Ad Caelum, something whispers in his mind. The taste of salt is gritty and sour on his tongue and the face of the man he loves—eyes green and deep and worried, but also dark and gleaming slick and colorful like the Lanes Between—hovering over his, and oh, how he’s _missed_ him, how they both have.

“You found me,” Sora says, and it’s with a voice ringing across lifetimes.

Riku smiles, crooked and relieved, pulling Sora up just enough that their foreheads touch. “I told you I would.”

Sora wakes and he remembers.

He remembers _everything_.

END

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more! I have ideas... Idk for sure though, so no promises.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
